Page 86 of Sharing Shane

“Well.” Delia popped the last bite of muffin into her mouth. “I don’t know much about this stuff, but that at least feels like a step in the right direction.”

“I guess. Maybe I should get some books or something. There are books for every other relationship problem, right? There have to be some for this one.”

“Sure. Wyatt can probably recommend some.”

Veronica shook her head. “No, I don’t want to ask him. Or Shane,” she said before Delia could suggest it.

“Why not?”

“Because if I get into it and realize it’s not for me, I don’t want to have to explain.” She winced. “Cowardly?”

Delia shook her head. “Cautious. And smart.”

“Thanks.” Veronica leaned back, but she couldn’t quite see the clock on the microwave. “Do you know what time it is?”

Delia slipped her phone out of her pocket. “Seven fifteen.”

“Shit. I'm going to be late, and I still have to shower.” Veronica gulped the last of her coffee, then rose from the sofa and hurried to the bathroom, dragging the T-shirt over her head as she went. “You can let yourself out.”

“I thought we could go to breakfast,” Delia called.

“No time,” Veronica yelled back and jumped in the shower.

By the time she emerged and had scrambled into some clothes, Delia was gone and she had just enough time to get to work.

Figuring out her suddenly very complicated love life would just have to wait until later.

The next few days gave Veronica very little time to worry about Shane. Work was even busier than usual—summer meant they’d taken on some clients that normally would be served by the public school system, so already busy schedules became overloaded. By the time she got home, she barely had the energy to shove something resembling dinner into her mouth before falling into bed until the alarm went off the next morning.

She was sorting laundry on Saturday afternoon when she came across the black T-shirt again. She’d been wearing it to bed all week and it desperately needed a wash, but then it would smell like laundry detergent and fabric softener instead of Shane. She’d grown used to his scent surrounding her when she fell asleep.

She missed him, she realized. Missed his scent and his body in bed next to hers, missed his grunts and his laugh and the way he’d roll his eyes and glare at the same time whenever Wyatt said something inappropriate.

She just missed Shane.

She set the shirt aside, then reached for her phone and scrolled through her contact list until she came to his name. They’d exchanged numbers on their last day on the island, after a bout of shower sex that had made full use of the handheld shower wand and had left her in a satisfied heap on the tile. He’d scooped her up, carried her to the bed, and picked up her phone.

“Call this number before you crash,” he’d said, handing it to her, and recited a number with a Detroit area code.

She’d already been half asleep, barely keeping her eyes open to punch in the numbers. When she’d hit send and heard a buzzing across the room, she’d clued in. “Why do you have a Detroit number?”

He’d taken the phone away from her to disconnect the call. “I used to live there, didn’t see the point in changing it.”

“Makes sense,” she’d said on a yawn, and had fallen asleep before he could say anything else. When she’d opened her eyes an hour later, he’d already left to catch his flight.

She’d added his information to her contact list, and even assigned it one of the few photos she’d taken on her trip. They’d been in the hammock, curled together to watch the sunset, and when she’d snapped a picture of the blazing pinks and oranges of the sky, she’d inadvertently included his feet.

Before she could change her mind, she quickly tapped her screen to bring up a new text. She attached the picture, typed “wish we were here” and hit send.

Then she shoved the phone into her pocket, picked up her hamper, and trudged down to the basement laundry room. She was pouring soap into the first machine when her phone rang.

She made herself finish pouring, closed the lid, and hit the button to start the wash before she answered. “Hello?”

“Hey,” he answered. “Thanks for the picture.”

His voice was rough, a low, throaty rumble. He sounded that way first thing in the morning, she remembered, and during sex. Especially during sex.

“You’re welcome,” she said, her own voice husky with memories.

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